ing till the first dawn of day should send them
on their deadly path. The moon had set; the night was intensely dark,
for clouds flitted over the sky, now and then disburdening themselves
with gusts of wind, which swayed the old woods to and fro, while big
drops of rain fell amid the leaves and were hushed.

Suddenly a white figure stood over the sleeping chief, so slight, so
unearthly in its shroud of wet, white hair, that one might well be
pardoned a superstitious tremor. She wrung her hands and wept bitterly
as she gazed--then she knelt down and looked more closely; then, with
a quick cry, she flung herself into his bosom.

"Oh, John Bonyton, did I not tell you this? Did I not tell you, years
ago, that little Hope stood in my path, with hair white as snow?"

The man raised himself up, he gathered the slight figure in his
arms--he uncovered a torch and held it to her face.

"Oh, my God! my God!" he cried--and his strength departed, and he was
helpless as a child. The years of agony, the lapse of thirty years
were concentrated in that fearful moment. Bridget, too, lay motionless
and silent, clinging to his neck. Long, long was that hour of
suffering to the two. What was life to them! stricken and changed,
living and breathing, they only felt that they lived and breathed by
the pangs that betrayed the beating pulse. Oh, life! life! thou art a
fearful boon, and thy love not the least fearful of thy gifts.

At length Bridget raised herself up, and would have left his arms; but
John Bonyton held her fast.

"Nay, Hope, never again. My tender, my beautiful bird, it has fared
ill with thee;" and smoothing her white locks, the tears gushed to the
eyes of the strong man. Indeed, he, in his full strength and manhood,
she, diminutive and bleached by solitude and grief, contrasted so
powerfully in his mind, that a paternal tenderness grew upon him, and
he kissed her brow reverently, saying,

"How have I searched for thee, my birdie, my child; I have been
haunted by the furies, and goaded well nigh to murder--but thou art
here--yet not thou. Oh, Hope! Hope!"

The girl listened intent and breathless.

"I knew it would be so, John Bonyton; I knew if parted we could never
be the same again--the same cloud returns not to the sky; the same
blossom blooms not twice; human faces wear never twice the same look;
and, alas! alas! the heart of to-day is not that of to-morrow."

"Say on, Hope--years are annihilated, and we are child